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Ebook has 277 lines and 21460 words, and 6 pages

POEMS,

FRANCES ANNE BUTLER,

LONDON: Printed by STEWART and MURRAY, Old Bailey.

TO KATHARINE SEDGWICK, THIS LITTLE VOLUME IS MOST RESPECTFULLY, GRATEFULLY, AND AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED.

LINES WRITTEN AT NIGHT.

August 9th, 1825.

Oh, thou surpassing beauty! that dost live Shrined in yon silent stream of glorious light! Spirit of harmony! that through the vast And cloud-embroidered canopy art spreading Thy wings, that o'er our shadowy earth hang brooding, Like a pale silver haze, betwixt the moon And the world's darker orb: beautiful, hail! Hail to thee! from her midnight throne of ether, Night looks upon the slumbering universe. There is no breeze on silver-crowned tree, There is no breath on dew-bespangled flower, There is no wind sighs on the sleepy wave, There is no sound hangs in the solemn air. All, all are silent, all are dreaming, all, Save those eternal eyes, that now shine forth Winking the slumberer's destinies. The moon Sails on the horizon's verge, a moving glory, Pure, and unrivalled; for no paler orb Approaches, to invade the sea of light That lives around her; save yon little star, That sparkles on her robe of fleecy clouds, Like a bright gem, fallen from her radiant brow.

VENICE.

Night in her dark array Steals o'er the ocean, And with departed day Hushed seems its motion. Slowly o'er yon blue coast Onward she's treading, 'Till its dark line is lost, 'Neath her veil spreading. The bark on the rippling deep Hath found a pillow, And the pale moonbeams sleep On the green billow. Bound by her emerald zone Venice is lying, And round her marble crown Night winds are sighing. From the high lattice now Bright eyes are gleaming, That seem on night's dark brow Brighter stars beaming. Now o'er the bright lagune Light barks are dancing, And 'neath the silver moon Swift oars are glancing. Strains from the mandolin Steal o'er the water, Echo replies between To mirth and laughter. O'er the wave seen afar Brilliantly shining, Gleams like a fallen star Venice reclining.

THE WIND.

Night comes upon the earth; and fearfully Arise the mighty winds, and sweep along In the full chorus of their midnight song. The waste of heavy clouds, that veil the sky, Roll like a murky scroll before them driven, And show faint glimpses of a darker heaven. No ray is there of moon, or pale-eyed star, Darkness is on the universe; save where The western sky lies glimmering, faint and far, With day's red embers dimly glowing there. Hark! how the wind comes gathering in its course, And sweeping onward, with resistless force, Howls through the silent space of starless skies, And on the breast of the swol'n ocean dies. Oh, though art terrible, thou viewless power! That rid'st destroying at the midnight hour! We hear thy mighty pinion, but the eye Knows nothing of thine awful majesty. We see all mute creation bow before Thy viewless wings, as thou careerest o'er This rocking world; that in the boundless sky Suspended, vibrates, as thou rushest by. There is no terror in the lightning's glare, That breaks its red track through the trackless air; There is no terror in the voice that speaks From out the clouds when the loud thunder breaks Over the earth, like that which dwells in thee, Thou unseen tenant of immensity.

EASTERN SUNSET.

'Tis only the nightingale's warbled strain, That floats through the evening sky: With his note of love, he replies again, To the muezzin's holy cry; As it sweetly sounds on the rosy air, "Allah, il allah! come to prayer!" Warm o'er the waters the red sun is glowing, 'Tis the last parting glance of his splendour and might, While each rippling wave on the bright shore is throwing Its white crest, that breaks into showers of light. Each distant mosque and minaret Is shining in the setting sun, Whose farewell look is brighter yet, Than that with which his course begun. On the dark blue mountains his smile is bright, It glows on the orange grove's waving height, And breaks through its shade in long lines of light. No sound on the earth, and no sound in the sky, Save murmuring fountains that sparkle nigh, And the rustling flight of the evening breeze, Who steals from his nest in the cypress trees, And a thousand dewy odours fling, As he shakes their white buds from his gossamer wing, And flutters away through the spicy air, At sound of a footstep drawing near.

FAREWELL TO ITALY.

Farewell awhile, beautiful Italy! My lonely bark is launched upon the sea That clasps thy shore, and the soft evening gale Breathes from thy coast, and fills my parting sail. Ere morning dawn, a colder breeze will come, And bear me onward to my northern home; That home, where the pale sun is not so bright, So glorious, at his noonday's fiercest height, As when he throws his last glance o'er the sea, And fires the heavens, that glow farewell on thee. Fair Italy! perchance some future day Upon thy coast again will see me stray; Meantime, farewell! I sorrow, as I leave Thy lovely shore behind me, as men grieve When bending o'er a form, around whose charms, Unconquered yet, Death winds his icy arms: While leaving the last kiss on some dear cheek, Where beauty sheds her last autumnal streak, Life's rosy flower just mantling into bloom, Before it fades for ever in the tomb. So I leave thee, oh! thou art lovely still! Despite the clouds of infamy and ill That gather thickly round thy fading form: Still glow thy glorious skies, as bright and warm, Still memory lingers fondly on thy strand, And Genius hails thee still her native land. Land of my soul's adoption! o'er the sea, Thy sunny shore is fading rapidly: Fainter and fainter, from my gaze it dies, 'Till like a line of distant light it lies, A melting boundary 'twixt earth and sky, And now 'tis gone;--farewell, fair Italy!

THE RED INDIAN.

Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past,-- Thy longest war-whoop, and thy last, Still rings upon the rushing blast, That o'er thy grave sweeps drearily.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy haughty brow, Beneath the hand of death bends low, Thy fiery glance is quenched now, In the cold grave's obscurity.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy rising sun Is set in blood, thy day is done; Like lightning flash thy race is run, And thou art sleeping peacefully.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy foot no more The boundless forest shall explore, Or trackless cross the sandy shore, Or chase the red deer rapidly.

Rest, warrior, rest! thy light canoe, Like thy choice arrow, swift and true, Shall part no more the waters blue, That sparkle round it brilliantly.

Rest, warrior, rest! thine hour is past, Yon sinking sunbeam is thy last, And all is silent, save the blast, That o'er thy grave sweeps drearily.

SONG.

Yet once again, but once, before we sever, Fill we one brimming cup,--it is the last! And let those lips, now parting, and for ever, Breathe o'er this pledge, "the memory of the past!"

Joy's fleeting sun is set; and no to-morrow Smiles on the gloomy path we tread so fast, Yet, in the bitter cup, o'erfilled with sorrow, Lives one sweet drop,--the memory of the past.

But one more look from those dear eyes, now shining Through their warm tears, their loveliest and their last; But one more strain of hands, in friendship twining, Now farewell all, save memory of the past.

LAMENT FOR ISRAEL.

Where is thy home in thy promised land? Desolate and forsaken! The stranger's arm hath seized thy brand, Thou art bowed beneath the stranger's hand, And the stranger thy birthright hath taken.

Where is the mark of thy chosen race? Infamous and degraded! It hath fallen on thee, on thy dwelling-place, And that heaven-stamped sign to a foul disgrace And the scoff of the world, has faded.

First-born of nations! upon thy brow, Resistless and revenging, The fiery finger of God hath now Written the sentence of thy wo, The innocent blood avenging!

Lion of Judah! thy glory is past, Vanished and fled for ever. Homeless and scattered, thy race is cast Like chaff in the breath of the sweeping blast, To rally or rise again, never!

A WISH.

Let me not die for ever, when I'm gone To the cold earth! but let my memory Live like the gorgeous western light that shone Over the clouds where sank day's majesty. Let me not be forgotten! though the grave Has clasped its hideous arms around my brow. Let me not be forgotten! though the wave Of time's dark current rolls above me now. Yet not in tears remembered be my name; Weep over those ye loved; for me, for me, Give me the wreath of glory, and let fame Over my tomb spread immortality!

SONG.

The moment must come, when the hands that unite In the firm clasp of friendship, will sever; When the eyes that have beamed o'er us brightly to-night, Will have ceased to shine o'er us, for ever. Yet wreathe again the goblet's brim With pleasure's roseate crown! What though the future hour be dim-- The present is our own!

The moment is come, and again we are parting, To roam through the world, each our separate way; In the bright eye of beauty the pearl-drop is starting, But hope, sunny hope, through the tear sheds its ray. Then wreathe again the goblet's brim With pleasure's roseate crown! What though the present hour be dim-- The future's yet our own!

The moment is past, and the bright throng that round us So lately was gathered, has fled like a dream; And time has untwisted the fond links that bound us, Like frost wreaths that melt in the morning's first beam. Still wreathe once more the goblet's brim! With pleasure's roseate crown! What though all else beside be dim-- The past has been our own!

Oh lady! thou, who in the olden time Hadst been the star of many a poet's dream! Thou, who unto a mind of mould sublime, Weddest the gentle graces that beseem Fair woman's best! forgive the darling line That falters forth thy praise! nor let thine eye Glance o'er the vain attempt too scornfully; But, as thou read'st, think what a love was mine, That made me venture on a theme, that none Can know thee, and not feel a hopeless one. Thou art most fair, though sorrow's chastening wing Hath past, and left its shadow on thy brow, And solemn thoughts are gently mellowing The splendour of thy beauty's summer now. Thou art most fair! but thine is loveliness That dwells not only on the lip, or eye; Thy beauty, is thy pure heart's holiness; Thy grace, thy lofty spirit's majesty. While thus I gaze on thee, and watch thee glide, Like some calm spirit o'er life's troubled stream, With thy twin buds of beauty by thy side Together blossoming; I almost deem That I behold the loveliness and truth, That like fair visions hovered round my youth, Long sought--and then forgotten as a dream.

A WISH.

Let me not die for ever when I'm laid In the cold earth! but let my memory Live still among ye, like the evening shade, That o'er the sinking day steals placidly. Let me not be forgotten! though the knell Has tolled for me its solemn lullaby; Let me not be forgotten! though I dwell For ever now in death's obscurity. Yet oh! upon the emblazoned leaf of fame, Trace not a record, not a line for me, But let the lips I loved oft breathe my name, And in your hearts enshrine my memory!

A SPIRIT'S VOICE.

It is the dawn! the rosy day awakes; From her bright hair pale showers of dew she shakes, And through the heavens her early pathway takes; Why art thou sleeping?

It is the noon! the sun looks laughing down On hamlet still, on busy shore, and town, On forest glade, and deep dark waters lone; Why art thou sleeping?

It is the sunset! daylight's crimson veil Floats o'er the mountain tops, while twilight pale Calls up her vaporous shrouds from every vale; Why art thou sleeping?

It is the night! o'er the moon's livid brow, Like shadowy locks, the clouds their darkness throw, All evil spirits wake to wander now; Why art thou sleeping?

TO THE DEAD.

On the lone waters' shore Wander I yet; Brooding those moments o'er I should forget. 'Till the broad foaming surge Warns me to fly, While despair's whispers urge To stay and die. When the night's solemn watch Falls on the seas, 'Tis thy voice that I catch In the low breeze; When the moon sheds her light On things below, Beams not her ray so bright, Like thy young brow? Spirit immortal! say, When wilt thou come, To marshal me the way To my long home?

SONG.

I sing the yellow leaf, That rustling strews The wintry path, where grief Delights to muse, Spring's early violet, that sweetly opes Its fragrant leaves to the young morning's kiss, Type of our youth's fond dreams, and cherished hopes, Will soon be this: A sere and yellow leaf, That rustling strews The wintry path, where grief Delights to muse. The summer's rose, in whose rich hues we read Pleasure's gay bloom, and love's enchanting bliss, And glory's laurel, waving o'er the dead, Will soon be this: A sere and yellow leaf, That rustling strews The wintry path, where grief Delights to muse.

TO THOMAS MOORE, ESQ.

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